"Not much here," he remarked.
"Keep reading," Miles said.
He did. On the second page, it began to get interesting. Michel Ard Rhi kept his own private army. He had helped finance several revolutions in foreign countries. He owned pieces of banking institutions, major arms corporations, even a few foreign governmentsubsidized industries. There was a suggestion that he might be involved in a good deal more, but there was no hard evidence. He had been charged with various criminal acts, mostly fraud related to SEC violations, although there was something about animal cruelty, but he had never been convicted. He traveled extensively, always with bodyguards, always by private transport.
Ben closed the file. "Washington, huh? I don't get it. I was sure Las Vegas was where we would find ..."
"Wait a minute, Doc," Miles interrupted quickly. "There's something more, something that just turned up yesterday. It's pretty farfetched, but it might tie in somehow with this guy being up there in Washington."
He dug through his briefcase and extracted a single sheet of typed paper. "Here we go. The investigators threw this in after I told them I wanted anything they could find on a talking dog. Seems one of them has some contacts in the scandal sheet business. Listen to this. Some fellow living in Woodinville, Washington-same place, right-tried to make a deal with Hollywood Eye Hollywood Eye for a hundred thousand dollars cash on delivery for an exclusive interview and photo session with a genuine talking dog!" for a hundred thousand dollars cash on delivery for an exclusive interview and photo session with a genuine talking dog!"
"Abernathy!" Ben exclaimed immediately.
Miles shrugged. "Could be."
"Did they give his name? The dog's?"
"Nope. Just the man's. Davis Whitsell. He's a dog trainer and showman. But he lives right there in Woodinville, same place this Ard Rhi keeps his walled tower. What do you think?"
Ben sat forward, his mind racing. "I think it's an awfully big coincidence, if that's all it is. But, if not, what's Abernathy doing with this Whitsell character instead of Ard Rhi? And what are Willow and I doing here? Could be Questor messed up with the magic and sent us to Nevada instead of to Washington. Damn! I suppose I should be grateful he didn't deposit us in the Pacific Ocean!" He was thinking out loud to himself now, and Miles was staring at him. He smiled. "Don't worry, I'm just trying to sort all this out. You did a heck of a job, Miles. Thanks."
Miles shrugged. "You're welcome. Now are you going to tell me what's going on here?"
Ben studied his old friend a moment, then nodded. "I'm going to try. You deserve that much. You want a Glenlivet while we talk?"
Miles had his scotch, then another, then a third as Ben tried to explain the story behind Abernathy and the missing medallion. This, of course, necessarily involved some minimal description of Landover, and that, in turn, took them off on a variety of side trips. Ben didn't tell Miles everything, particularly where it involved anything dangerous, because he knew it would only worry Miles. Willow appeared from the shower, and Ben sent down for dinner. Miles seemed to grow more comfortable in the sylph's presence after a time, and she in his, and they began to talk with each other like real people. Much of what Miles had to say to Willow left her mystified, and much of what she had to say to him left him speechless-but they got along. The evening wore on, the questions mostly got answered, and the lights of the strip began to brighten the casinos and lounges against the night skies.
Finally, Willow drifted off to bed, and Miles and Ben were left alone. Ben poured them a brandy from the bar stock, and they sat together staring out the window.
"You have a place to stay?" Ben said after a time. "I never thought to check."
Miles nodded, his gaze distant. "Down a floor or two. Down with the commoners. I booked it with the plane tickets."
"That reminds me." Ben was on his feet. "I have to call the airport right now for a flight out tomorrow."
"Washington?"
Ben nodded. "Where the heck is Woodinville?" he called back as he crossed to the phone.
"North of Seattle." Miles stretched. "Make sure you make reservations for three."
Ben stopped. "Wait a minute, you're not going."
Miles sighed. "Sure, I'm going. What do you think, Doc? That I'm leaving just when this is getting interesting? Besides, you might need me. You don't have all the connections you used to. I do-not to mention credit cards and money."
Ben shook his head. "I don't know. This could be dangerous, Miles. Who knows what we're up against with Michel Ard Rhi. I don't like the idea-"
"Doc!" Miles cut him short. "I'm going. Make the call."
Ben gave up arguing, made the reservations on an early morning PSA flight, and returned to the sofa. Miles was staring out the window again.
"Remember when we were kids and we did all that pretending? Remember how we created all those make-believe worlds to play in? I was thinking about how lucky you were to find one for real, Doc. Everyone else has to live with the world they've got." He shook his head. "Not you. You get to live what others can only wish for."
Ben didn't say anything. He was thinking about how differently they looked at things. It was the difference in their realities. Landover was his reality; Miles had only this world. He remembered how desperately he had wished for exactly what he had now just two short years ago. He had forgotten about that. It was good to remember it again.
"I am pretty lucky," he said finally.
Miles did not reply.
They sat together in silence, sipping brandy and letting their private dreams take shape in the playground of their thoughts.
Their flight out of Las Vegas was at 7:58 A.M. A.M. on PSA flight 726, a smaller jet making a single stopover in Reno on its way north to Seattle. They arrived early at the airport, camped out in an empty terminal until boarding, and took seats at the rear of the airplane to avoid drawing any more attention than was necessary. Ben had bound up Willow's hair in a head scarf, covered her face with skin-toned foundation cream, and clothed her head to foot to hide her skin, but she looked like a walking sideshow nevertheless. Worse, she was more listless than ever. Her strength seemed to be simply draining away from her. on PSA flight 726, a smaller jet making a single stopover in Reno on its way north to Seattle. They arrived early at the airport, camped out in an empty terminal until boarding, and took seats at the rear of the airplane to avoid drawing any more attention than was necessary. Ben had bound up Willow's hair in a head scarf, covered her face with skin-toned foundation cream, and clothed her head to foot to hide her skin, but she looked like a walking sideshow nevertheless. Worse, she was more listless than ever. Her strength seemed to be simply draining away from her.
When they had taken off the second time out of Reno and Miles was dozing, she leaned over to Ben and whispered, "I know what troubles me, Ben. I need to nourish in the soil. I need to make the change. I think that is why I am so weak. I'm sorry."
He nodded and hugged her close. He had forgotten about her need to transform from human to tree every twenty days. Perhaps he had simply blocked it away when he had agreed to bring her on this journey in the misguided hope that it wouldn't prove to be a problem. But the twenty-day cycle had obviously come around again. She would have to be allowed to change.
But what would the elements in the soil of this world do to her body systems?
He didn't like to think about it. It made him feel helpless. They were trapped here now, trapped until he found Abernathy and retrieved his medallion.
He took a deep breath, gripped Willow's gloved hand tightly in his own, and leaned back in his seat. Just one more day, he promised silently. By tonight, he would be on Davis Whitsell's doorstep, and his search would be over.
The phone rang in the living room, and Davis Whitsell pushed back his bowl of Wheaties, got up from the breakfast table, and hurried to answer it. Abernathy watched him through a crack in the bedroom door. They were alone in the house. Alice Whitsell had gone to visit her mother three days ago. Show dogs were one thing, she had said on leaving-talking dogs were something else. She would be back when the dog-if that's what it really was in the first place-was gone.
Probably just as well, Davis had insisted afterward. It was easier to concentrate on things when Alice wasn't running the TV or her mouth.
Abernathy didn't know what he meant. What he did know was that as far as he could determine he was no closer to reaching Virginia than before. Despite his host's repeated assurances that everything would be fine, he was beginning to grow suspicious.
He listened as Davis picked up the receiver. "Davis Whitsell." There was a pause. "Yes, Mr. Stern, how are you? Uh, huh. Sure thing." He sounded very eager. "Don't worry, I'll be there!"
Davis placed the receiver back on its cradle, rubbed his hands together briskly, cast a quick look down the hall in the direction of Abernathy's bedroom, then picked up the phone again and dialed. Abernathy continued to stand at the door and listen.
"Blanche?" Whitsell said into the receiver. His voice was hushed. "Let me talk to Alice. Yeah." He waited. "Alice? Listen, I only got a moment. I just got a call from the Hollywood Eye! Hollywood Eye! Yeah, how about that? Yeah, how about that? The Hollywood Eye! The Hollywood Eye! You thought I was nuts, didn't you? One hundred thousand dollars for the interview, a few pictures, and out the door! When it's done, I put the dog on the plane, wish him luck, and we get on with our lives-a hell of a lot richer and a hell of a lot better known. The You thought I was nuts, didn't you? One hundred thousand dollars for the interview, a few pictures, and out the door! When it's done, I put the dog on the plane, wish him luck, and we get on with our lives-a hell of a lot richer and a hell of a lot better known. The Eye Eye will have the exclusive, but the other magazines will pick up the story afterward. I'll have more business than I know what to do with. We're gonna be in the big bucks, girl! No more scratching and scrimping for us!" There was a brief pause. "Sure, it's safe! Look, I gotta go. See you in a few days, okay?" will have the exclusive, but the other magazines will pick up the story afterward. I'll have more business than I know what to do with. We're gonna be in the big bucks, girl! No more scratching and scrimping for us!" There was a brief pause. "Sure, it's safe! Look, I gotta go. See you in a few days, okay?"
He hung up and went back into the kitchen. Abernathy watched him rinse the dishes and put them in the sink, then start down the hall toward the bedrooms. Abernathy hesitated, then moved back from the door to the bed and lay down, trying to look as if he were just waking.
Whitsell stuck his head through the door. "I'm going out for a bit," he advised. "That guy I told you about, the one who's going to provide the rest of the money we need to get you back to Virginia, is down at the motel waiting to talk to me. Then we'll be coming back here for the interview. If you check out, we're all set. So maybe you'd better get yourself ready."
Abernathy blinked and sat up. "Are you sure all this is necessary, Mr. Whitsell? I feel rather uncomfortable with the idea of talking about myself and having pictures taken. I doubt that the High Lord ... uh, my friend, would approve."
"There you go with that High Lord' business again," Whitsell snapped. "Who is this guy, anyway?" He shook his head wearily when Abernathy just stared at him. "Look, if we don't talk to the man with the money and let him take your picture, we don't get the money. And if we don't get the money, we can't get you back to Virginia. As I told you before, the money Elizabeth gave you just isn't enough."
Abernathy nodded doubtfully. He wasn't sure he believed that anymore. "How much longer until I can go?"
Whitsell shrugged. "Day, maybe two. Just be patient."
Abernathy thought he had been patient long enough, but he decided not to say so. Instead, he stood up and started for the bathroom. "I will be ready when you return," he promised.
Whitsell left him there, passed back through the living room, pausing to scratch Sophie's ears affectionately, went out the side door into the carport, and got into his old pickup. Abernathy watched him go. He knew he was being used, but there was no help for it. He had no one else he could turn to and nowhere else he could go. The best he could do was hope that Whitsell would keep his word.
He walked into the living room and peered out the window long enough to see the pickup back out the driveway and turn up the street.
He paid no attention at all to the black van parked across the way.
Somewhere down the hall, the old clock ticked methodically in the stillness. Abernathy stood in front of the bathroom mirror and looked at himself. Four days were gone since he had escaped Michel Ard Rhi and Graum Wythe, and Landover seemed as far away as ever. He sighed and licked his nose, rethinking his options. If this business of the interview and the pictures didn't produce results, he guessed he was simply going to have to bid Davis Whitsell good-bye and strike out on his own. What other choice did he have? Time was running out on him. He had to find a way to get the medallion safely back to the High Lord.
He cleaned his teeth, brushed his fur, and studied himself some more in the mirror. He was looking much better than he had on his arrival, he decided. Eating and sleeping like a regular person did wonders for one.
He toweled his paws absently. Too bad Mrs. Whitsell had felt it necessary to leave. He couldn't understand why she had been so upset ...
He thought he heard something and started to turn.
That was when the immobilizing spray hit him in the face. He staggered back, choking. A cord wound about his muzzle and a sack came over his head. He was lifted off his feet and carried out. He struggled weakly, but the hands that held him were strong and practiced. He could hear voices, hushed and hurried, and through a small tear in the sack he caught a glimpse of a black van with its rear doors open. He was tossed inside and the doors slammed shut.
Then something sharp jabbed into his backside, and he was engulfed in blackness.
LOVE SONG.
Day slipped away into evening in the country of the River Master, and the fairy folk of Elderew put aside their work and began to light the lamps of the tree lanes and pathways in preparation for the coming of night. All through the massive old trees which cradled their city, they darted-along limbs and branches, up and down gnarled trunks, through steadily lengthening shadows and thickening mist. Sprites, nymphs, kelpies, naiads, pixies, elementals of all forms and shapes, they were the creatures of the fairy world that surrounded the valley of Landover, creatures who were exiled or had fled from lives in which they had found no pleasure, though such lives had lasted an eternity.
The River Master stood at the edge of a park fronting his hidden forest city and mused on dreams of paradise lost. He was a tall, lean man, dressed in robes of forest green, a sprite with grainy, silver skin, gills at the side of his neck that fluttered gently as he breathed, hair that grew thick and black on his head and forearms, and an odd, chiseled face with eyes that were flat and penetrating. He had come into Landover at the time of its inception, bringing his people with him, exiled forever by choice from the mists of fairy. Mortal now, in a sense he had never appreciated in his old life, he lived in the seclusion of the lake country and worked to keep its earth, water, air, and life forms clean and safe. He was a healer sprite, capable of giving back life where it had been stolen. But some wounds refused to heal, and the irretrievable loss of his birth home was a scar that would always be with him.
He walked a few steps closer to the city, conscious of the guards who trailed at a respectful distance to allow him his privacy. Five of eight moons glimmered full in the night sky, colors bright against the black-mauve, peach, jade, burnt rose, and white.
"Paradise lost," he whispered, thinking still of the haunting dreams of the fairy mists. He looked around. "But paradise gained, too."
He loved the lake country. It was the heart and soul of his people, the exiles and the wanderers who had banded with him to begin anew, to discover and build for themselves and their children a world of beginnings and ends, a world of no absolutes-a world they could not find within the mists. Elderew lay hidden within marshlands, deep within a sprawling maze of forests and lakes, so well concealed that no one could find a way in or out without the help of its denizens. Those who tried simply disappeared in the mire. Elderew was a haven from the madness of those in the valley that could not appreciate the value of life-the land barons of the Greensward, the trolls and gnomes of the mountains, the monsters driven from fairy who still survived after a millennium of war. Destruction and misuse of the land was the trademark of such beings. But here, in the sanctuary of the River Master, there was peace.
He watched a dance procession begin to form at the edge of the park before him, a line of children draped in flowers and bright cloth and bearing candles. They sang and wound their way along the paths, over the waterway bridges, and through the gardens and hedgerows. He smiled as he watched them, content.
It was better now in the lands beyond the lake country, he reflected, than it had been before the coming of Ben Holiday. The High Lord of Landover had done much to heal the breach that existed between the disparate peoples of the valley; he had done much to encourage preservation and conservation of the land and its life. Holiday judged rightly-as the River Master did-that all life was inextricably bound together and that if one tie was cut, others were endangered as well.
Willow had gone with the High Lord, Willow his child-chosen, she claimed, in the manner of the sylphs of old, by fates that were woven in the grasses on which her parents lay at her conception. Willow believed in Ben Holiday. The River Master found her belief enviable.
He breathed deeply the night air. Not that his opinions mattered much these days with the High Lord. Holiday was still angry with him for attempting to trap the black unicorn and harness its powers some months back. Holiday had never been able to accept the fact that fairy power belonged only to fairy creatures because they, alone, understood its use.
He shook his head. Ben Holiday had been good for Landover, but he still had much to learn.
There was a small disturbance off to his left, and it brought him about. Onlookers to the dancing of the children had moved rapidly aside as a pair of his marsh sentries stalked out of the gloom of the lowlands mist with a singularly frightening creature between them. Hardened veterans, their grainy wood faces as fixed as stone, the wood nymphs nevertheless kept a fair amount of distance between themselves and their charge. The River Master's guards started to close about him instantly, but he quickly waved them back. It would serve no purpose to show fear. He stood his ground and let the creature approach.
The creature was called a shadow wight. It was a form of elemental whose physical self had been ravaged at some point in its existence for an unspeakable deed or misuse so that, while it did not die, all that remained of it was its spirit. That poor life was consigned to an eternity of nonbeing. It could sustain itself only within shadows and dark spots, never within light. It had been denied its body and so had no real presence. What presence it possessed it was forced to construct from the debris of its haunts and the remains of its victims. A succubus, it stole life from others so that it, in turn, could survive, thieving and robbing from the lost and dying as a scavenger would. There were few of these horrors left in the valley now, most having perished with the passing of the ages.
This one, the River Master thought darkly, was particularly loathsome.
The shadow wight came to him on spindly, warped legs that might have belonged to an aged troll. Its arms were the limbs of some animal; its body was human. It possessed gnome hands and feet, a human child's fingers, and a face that was a mix of ravaged parts.
It bore in one hand an old woven sack.
It smiled, and its mouth seemed to twist in a silent scream. "Lord River Master," it said, its voice an echo of empty caverns. It bowed crookedly.
"It came to us without being brought," one of the sentries informed the River Master pointedly.
The Lord of the lake country people nodded. "Why have you come?" he asked the wight.
The shadow wight straightened unsteadily. Light passed through its misshapen body at the ragged joining of its bones. "To offer a gift-and to ask one."
"You found your way in; find your way out again." The River Master's face was as hard as stone. "Life will be my gift to you; ridding yourself from my presence will be your gift to me."
"Death would be a better gift," the shadow wight whispered, and its empty eyes reflected the distant candlelight. It turned to where the children still danced, wetting its lips with its tongue. "Look at me, Lord River Master. What creature that lived in all the worlds of all the times that are or ever were is more pathetic than I?"
The River Master did not respond, waiting. The wight's empty gaze shifted again. "I will tell you a story and ask that you listen, nothing more. A few quick moments that might be of interest, Lord River Master. Will you hear me?"
The River Master almost said no. He was so repulsed by the creature that he had barely been able to tolerate its presence this long. Then something caused him to relent. "Speak," he commanded wearily.
"Two years now have I lived within the crawl spaces and dark spots of the castle of Rhyndweir," the shadow wight said, edging a step closer, its voice so low that only the River Master could hear. "I lived on the wretches the Lord of that castle cast into its keep and on those poor creatures who strayed too far from the light. I watched and learned much. Then, this past night gone, a ruined troll brought to Rhyndweir's Lord a treasure to sell, a treasure of such wondrous possibilities that it surpassed anything I had ever seen! The Lord of Rhyndweir took the treasure from the troll and had him killed. I, in turn, took it from the Lord of Rhyndweir."
"Kallendbor," said the River Master distastefully. He bore no great affection for any of the Lords of the Greensward, Kallendbor least of all.
"I stole it from his sanctuary while he slept, stole it from beneath the noses of his watch because, after all, Lord River Master, they are only men. I stole it, and I brought it to you-my gift for a gift in return!"
The River Master fought back the wave of revulsion that passed through him as the shadow wight laughed hollowly. "What is this gift?"
"This!" the wight said and pulled from the sack it carried in its withered pink hand a white bottle with red dancing clowns.
"Ah, no!" the River Master cried in recognition. "I know this gift well, shadow wight-and it is no gift at all! It is a curse! It is the bottle of the Darkling!"
"It calls itself so," the other said, coming closer still, so close its breath was warm against the River Master's skin. "But it is indeed a gift! It can give the bearer of the bottle ..."
"Anything!" finished the River Master, shying away despite his resolve. "But the magic it employs is evil beyond all words!"
"I care nothing for good or evil," the wight said. "I care only for one thing. Listen to me, Lord River Master. I stole the bottle and I brought it to you. What you do with it now is of no concern to me. Destroy it, if you wish. But first use it to help me!" Its voice was a hiss of despair. "I want myself back again!"
The River Master stared. "Back again? That which you once were?"
"That! Only that! Look at me! I cannot bear myself longer, Lord River Master! I have lived an eternity of nonbeing, of shadowlife, of scavenging and horror beyond all words because I have had no choice! I have stolen lives from every quarter, thieved them from every being that is or was! No more! I want myself back; I want my life again!"